The Lines Are Lost
by RRfan4life
Summary: Ross deals with the absence of a goodbye and the eventual encounter with Rachel on the night of Rachel's goodbye party. [oneshot]


The Lines Are Lost

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters, cause if I did, every episode would have Ross and Rachel doing . . . "stuff"

**A/N: **Just a little one-shot as I'm at a complete stand-still with "Sleight of Hand" (But I havent given up on that one). This is just Ross's point of view during TOW Rachel's Goodbye Party, into the beginning of The Last One. Don't be scared away by the M rating, its nothing overtly graphic, I don't think.

* * *

"You know what? Have a good time in Paris."

The sardonic words reverberated in his ears, even after he made sure to slam the door behind him, even after he began loudly descending down the stairs in the apartment building. He couldn't believe it. Everything . . . everything that had happened between him and Rachel, and she was leaving things silently. Not the slightest acknowledgement that he meant anything to her. Nothing.

He even thought back to earlier that day, when she'd dropped their daughter off at her mother's. He'd somehow kept the tears in, the anger at the fact that his daughter was being taken away from him as he bid the nearly two-year-old goodbye. Another child to hear about over the phone, from someone else . . .

And she'd just stood there. He almost thought he heard the familiar sound of her choking back an oncoming sob, but when he turned, she wasn't even looking at them.

Only now did he notice that he'd left the apartment building, and was standing outside on the sidewalk. The air was a bit muggy as a summer shower had just made its way through Manhattan that morning, and the streetlights reflected off pools of condensation lingering in the streets. He turned, and craned his head back as he looked upwards towards the windows to her and Joey's apartment.

He should hate her.

He shook his head, turning his back on everything that had upset him so much tonight, and in the past. This _should_ be the last straw. He'd suffered an entire lifetime full of disappointments due to Rachel Green. He'd always be so willing to meet her needs, to please her even if nothing was in it for him. And more than often, he found himself the victim of her cruel games.

As he made his way across the street to his own building, each footstep heavier than the last, his mind filled with bitter memories. All the women he'd pushed aside at the slightest notion of getting back together with Rachel. Julie, Bonnie . . . and both times, he'd been made a fool. Both times, she'd left him hanging. What was a stupid list when compared to that first kiss? What was the biggest, stupidest mistake of his life, when compared to that one night when they'd shared each other again after months of heartache and longing?

God, and even the times when nothing had been in it for him at all. Rachel hadn't been looking for a rekindled relationship when she practically demanded that Jill and Katie be thrown out the door. It was always _her_. She was "uncomfortable". She wanted him for _her_, but not to date. Just to _have_. What was he, her_ property_? Something for her to have hanging on a leash, just in case she had a moment of weakness?

As he slammed his own apartment door behind him, he expected to feel disgusted. Outraged. But he didn't. He felt . . . an aching. A hole in his heart beginning to form, cutting through the painful memories and leaving only the ones that entered his mind late at night, when he couldn't sleep. Their first night together in the planetarium. Their first, rushed, yelled "I love you"s. Hearing that she still loved him, even when he was off burying his loss of her in a new wife. Being told she was having his child . . .

He wanted to hate her. He wanted _so much_ to despise her, rip up pictures of her, and forget her forever. Everything would be so much easier that way. He'd be able to stand her leaving . . . and things, for once, would make _sense_. People were supposed to get mad when faced with the rejection he'd faced. They were _supposed_ to hold grudges. So why couldn't he?

Why couldn't he, when faced with the image of Rachel giving up on their relationship in a teary defeat, stop feeling like she was the most precious thing he'd ever touched, the most valuable thing he'd ever lost, the single most important person in his life?

Almost subconciously, he'd pulled out an empty birthday card lying around, and began filling it out to his mother, upon Rachel's earlier request. Then he threw it away from him, realizing that he was once again doing everything for her. Even something as small as a birthday card. Why did he keep finding himself in this position?

Before he could become too disgusted with himself, his door burst open in a blur of frustration and anger.

"You really think I didn't say goodbye because I don't care?"

"That's what it seemed like!", he answered automatically, his ever-defensive walls being put up.

"I cannot believe, that after ten years, you do not know _one thing_ about me."

He didn't know one thing about her? He knew everything about her, probably more than her own parents. Probably more than his sister, who'd shared an apartment with her for six years.

"Fine, then why didn't you say something?" There. He finally hinted at something other than rage. He was hurt.

"Because it is _too damn hard, _Ross." He noticed tears forming at the corners of her blue eyes, still ablaze with her firey passion. "I can't even _begin_ to explain to you how much I'm gonna miss you. When I think about not seeing you every day, it makes me _not want to go_." She paused a moment, waiting for it to sink it. "Okay, so if you think that I didn't say goodbye to you because you don't mean as much to me as everybody else, you're wrong. It's because you mean _more_ to me."

He felt her finger jab into his chest. He couldn't move. All he could do was stand still, staring at her, waiting for her words to sink in. To make him _react_. Only he didn't know how. He was speechless.

"So there, alright? There's your goodbye."

She turned, perfectly content to leave him with yet another image of her crying, her walking away from him. From them, whatever the hell they were right now. He couldn't. He wouldn't.

"Rach!" he shouted out, not even knowing what he was saying, not even knowing why he was keeping her. What could he do? Was it his turn to yell now?

"What?"

"You keep . . . you keep . . ." he couldn't get the words out. Even as they formed in his mouth, words of fury and pain and everything else he was feeling crumbled. He knew he couldn't direct those kinds of words towards her, no matter how hard he tried. "You can't . . ."

"_What?_"

He didn't know what was coming over him. Some desire, some passion, was sparking deep inside himself. He couldn't let her leave angry. He had to keep her here. She had to know how he felt . . . _he_ didn't even know how he felt.

But something inside of him must have known, because before he could blink, he'd leaned into her and kissed her with such ferocity that she stumbled backwards a few feet. He pressed his mouth tightly to hers, not quite sure what he was trying to communicate to her through it, but knowing it was important. But he felt her slip out of his grasp.

His eyes immediately averted from hers. If she asked for an explanation, he knew he couldn't give her one. He didn't have one. He could feel her eyes on him, confused and surprised, and he felt ashamed.

Then, all he could feel were her hands on either side of his face, before she pulled his lips towards hers for another kiss, and tightened her arms around his neck. Almost like an instinct, one that he hadn't found need to use in quite some time, his arms went around her waist, he gripped at her lower back. Everything went blurry. He was falling, once again, under Rachel's spell . . .

But he didn't care. He didn't care at all. He felt her tongue brush against his own, and any thought of even wishing he felt hatred towards her was gone from his mind. There was only her, and him, and the looming fact that she'd be gone in less than twenty-four hours.

The kiss intensified as he pulled her even closer to him, and he felt her hands slide down from his neck to clutching his shoulders. This all felt like the replay of a distant memory, from somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind. He couldn't remember the last time he wanted her this bad, although he was sure there had to have been one.

Subtly, so as not to pull her away from the moment, he began inching them back, until she followed with an urge even stronger than his, and all of a sudden, his back hit the bedroom door and they burst inside the room. Their tongues continued their dance as he felt her small hands flatten down his chest and begin to undo his buttons. He still wasn't even sure what all of this meant . . .

"Wait, wait," she said, as she pulled away breathlessly, her hands still on his shirt. "Should we really be doing this?"

"Uh, I don't know," he admitted, the clouds in his head parting as he saw the reality of the situation. This wouldn't make anything easier.

"It's probably not a good idea," she said, but one look at her as she backed away a bit told him that she wasn't really convinced either way. But he knew he couldn't take advantage of her, or push her into anything she wasn't sure she wanted to do.

"Probably not," he breathed, still panting a bit from their kiss. They spent a few awkward moments avoiding each other's gaze, worried that one look might lead them to do something insane. The air was thick, and Ross was unsure what he wanted to happen. But he knew he wanted her, and he was scared what that might do. Then, by accident, their eyes met again.

"Well, that never stopped us before," she let out, colliding back into him. He landed on his back on the bed, her on top of him, and he decided that he couldn't worry about anything. She seemed just as desperate as he was, as she forced her tongue back into his mouth and finished unbuttoning his shirt. He promised himself that he wouldn't regret anything that happened tonight. He'd let things take a course of their own. It would just happen.

He slid his hands under her shirt, feeling her skin on his palms like an icy fire. Hurrying before she could think better of the situation and change her mind, he began tugging at her clothing as he felt her hands slip underneath his undershirt and up his bare chest. Once he removed her shirt and skirt and she'd managed to kick her boots off and discard his undershirt, he turned to settle her beneath him. They looked at each other for a moment, their breathing strained, their chests heaving.

She then gave her attention to the daunting task of undoing his belt, and he dipped his head down to kiss the soft skin on her neck. Hearing a soft moan escape her lips, he struggled to hold himself up on his arms and let his lips drift over her neck, occasionally letting his tongue brush her skin or his teeth bite down gently. His pants were being tugged down his hips and he felt her rearrange herself so he was cradled between her legs. All this quickened his drive, as he moved down and began kissing her chest, feeling so drunk on her that he couldn't even think straight.

He couldn't even remember doing it, it was like his hands had a mind of their own, but when he opened his eyes, she was naked beneath him. She kept her eyes closed, as she struggled to catch her breath. She was so beautiful. How could he even hope to hate something like her? It couldn't even be possible. Not when she was looking like that . . .

Her hands reached up as she pulled him back down, engaging him in a passionate, drawn-out kiss. They had always stopped the initial heat and urgency of their foreplay right before they began. The kiss was achingly slow, driving him mad. He pulled back and brought his mouth to her ear.

"Is it okay?", he whispered, barely loud enough to be heard. He kissed her temple comfortingly. She nodded.

He guided himself into her, like so many times before, only this was different. This somehow felt new and familiar at the same time. He squeezed his eyes shut, as he began sliding in and out of her, starting out slowly. He heard her softly whimper below him, her hands desperately trying to hold onto his back, now slick with sweat. He wedged his hands beneath her, grabbing at her ass and pulling her to him with an increasing hastiness, trying to bury himself deeper inside her.

He felt his muscles begin to tighten, so he thrust harder to make sure she could finish before he gave out. He heard her moans increase in volume, her clutch on his tighten as her fingernails scratched at his back and scalp. He kept persisting, feeling her orgasm become stronger and stronger until he knew she couldn't take it anymore. Her climax triggered his own, and both fell in a heap of sweat and tangled limbs. After a few moments, he rolled onto his back next to her, reaching for her hand between them.

She looked at him, in almost a sense of wonderment, and gave him a bewildered half-smile. He smiled back. She moved a few inches away, and he thought she was probably remembering his old hug-and-roll ploy, so he quickly threw an arm around her to bring her closer. With the affirmation, she rested her head against his chest as he held her, stroking her back and letting their heart rate return to normal.

He couldn't even explain how this felt. It was just . . . it was so _right_. It was like he was supposed to do this, his whole life had led him to it. Being there for her, being _with _her. And then he remembered.

She was leaving tomorrow.

Looking down, she was already asleep against him. He pulled the covers over them, trying so hard to not think that this would probably be the last time they'd do this. It couldn't be, there was no way. It was too right.

And in that moment, he realized that he didn't care about what Rachel had done to him in the past. He'd be glad to make her happy, even if she was the only one benefiting. It was _Rachel_. He could never, ever come close to hating her. He knew he'd hurt her before, probably worse than she'd done to him. But here she was. Maybe he was doing something right.

And without all those crazy fights, the moments of rejection and hurt, he would never find himself in _these_ moments. The ones that mattered so much _because_ of all the other stuff.

He still didn't know what the night meant, or if anything would change. He didn't even think about it. All he thought about was curling up to sleep with Rachel in his arms again. And for now, that was good enough.


End file.
